Shock of Light
by Exorcism Expert
Summary: It is so easy to confuse Dark with Light. Draco just didn't know how easy until he walked into that alley. Not DH-epilogue compliant. Slash, HPxDM; Song-fic based on The Dykeenies' song Pick You Up


**A/N: **There will be a plot explanation at the end of the story. This story was inspired by a song called Pick You Up by The Dykeenies.

**Disclaimer: **Ex owns nothing.

**PICK YOU UP**

Draco remembered exactly why he absolutely loathed autumn in London as soon as he had exited the hotel.

_I don't bloody care if this accursed town is the only place I can find the ingredients I need. I'll never return if I can help it. That's what owls and house-elves are for. Merlin knows they are faster, anyhow._

It wasn't so much that it was cold and wet here; Scotland was just as wet and cold. However, in London there was this dreary look about the entire place. Gray buildings and black-slate colored windows fenced the streets, reminding Draco vaguely of being trapped in a cemetery of people's dreams and mediocre businesses. At least in Scotland there was color—albeit only one color—that symbolized something he liked. Green was everywhere there and here…eh.

His leather-donned hands clenched tightly in his wool pockets, Draco trudged along. Muggle London was the last place he wanted to be at such a time at night but he needed to pick up his ingredients while it was still the witching hour. The plants were so very sensitive about the time; like a sleeping animal, if disturbed at the wrong time of day, they would refuse to be useful for when he needed to brew them into his potions. He couldn't afford such expensive and rare specimens to become stubborn just because he didn't want to walk through the cold and dreary town.

It didn't take him long to reach his destination, a deserted looking ghetto just along the outskirts of London. He waited less than a minute next to a broken lamppost before hearing the clicking of shoes against cracked street rocks. The silhouette of a man came into view and Draco nodded in greeting.

"Evening, Longbottom. Have you got the merchandise?" There wasn't enough light to see Neville Longbottom's face properly but Draco knew there would be an amused grin on his face. Apparently, Longbottom found muggle television amusing and had heard that line being used during the illegal sale of strange "drugs"—something Draco assumed to be similar to a potion or elixir. Apparently, it was very humorous.

"Yeah, I got it. We've got a good bunch right now; the plants are particularly happy to be helpful tonight. Once they're in a stable environment, freezing their positively negative attitude as it is should be easy enough. They'll be good for another two weeks once they are frozen."

Draco nodded and tossed Longbottom ten Galleons before taking the box from Longbottom's careful hands. He knew that these plants usually had a life of about three hours and two weeks was an excellent extension of their usefulness. Plus, Longbottom and he had formed this strange sort of bond easily once the past had been set aside. These plants were hard to come by and Draco needed a supplier; Longbottom was good at taking care of rare plants and he had no real use for them other than to fill up his pots. The agreement worked out pretty well. Besides, this was perfectly legal. The only reason they met there was because there was no lighting and these plants could feel the heat of a lamp with hyper-sensitivity. If they felt the burn of warmth, they'd be useless.

Draco never thanked Longbottom but it just wasn't his style. Instead, with the ten Galleons he had thrown in a couple bulbs he had managed to find in Knockturn Alley, expensive and rare and definitely not something that could be afforded on a professor's salary. Longbottom knew when he was appreciated when Draco was his customer.

"Floo me when you find you need some other ingredients," Neville said happily, already turning away. He didn't Apparate away until he was a good distance from Draco. The plant was much too sensitive.

The simulacrum bractea was a plant that no normal herbologist could have cared for. It was a rather depressed plant and feared the light excessively. However, it was a necessary ingredient for the Draught of Everlasting Darkness and for the Peruvian Instant Darkness powder that that damned Weasley was selling. Besides, Draco was willing to sell that powder for a lower price than the actual Peruvians. The Weasley got a good deal and he knew it.

Sighing, Draco tucked the pouched plant into the safety of his enlarged pocket where it would be cold. Chilling charms were absolutely lovely when it came to this plant.

As he walked along, he stepped over the muggle newsprint, grimacing at the unmoving pictures and the bland stories about some old hag's cat being rescued by some man with a knack for climbing trees and miraculously not getting scratched. He swore that he didn't stop to read the water-drenched paper off the street.

Despite hating nights like this, Draco dawdled. He still had six hours before the heat of dawn began to rise from behind the buildings and he would have rather stayed out of the hotel. The muggles were so very quiet this time of night, silence being something the Wizarding world could never quit accomplish.

It was so dark that light could easily be seen from miles away and there was a car heading straight toward them. Cursing, Draco launched himself into an alley, curling himself so his pocket was protected from even a hint of the headlights. As soon as it passed—buzzing and sputtering fumes—Draco sighed, leaning against the wall in relief, hand brought to his throat to calm his breath. Longbottom would have his head if he found out that Draco had nearly lost perfectly good specimens before he had even gotten home.

"Nice night tonight, isn't it?" Draco nearly screamed, biting down on his knuckle to prevent any loud noises. He jumped from his spot and produced his wand, knowing that if he wanted to use magic for this, he would have to kiss his depressing plant goodbye.

"Reveal yourself," he ordered. The muggle would have to be Obliviated immediately. Perhaps he could shield the light with his body.

However, all thoughts ceased when he saw that the man he was speaking to wasn't getting up from the ground where he sat. In fact, he didn't even put any effort into doing so.

"Sorry, Draco. My legs don't seem to be working with me right now." Draco frowned at the use of his name and leaned down to get a better look. With his eyes so well adjusted to the dark, he saw familiar features. Dark hair, round spectacles, a scar—

"Potter?!"

"Quiet yourself. There are people and plants trying to sleep." Draco winced at that; his plant couldn't possibly make it all the way home now, could it? It was probably already upset. Blast.

"Don't worry, you weren't that loud. The noise was probably muffled by your pocket. The alley's dead, anyhow. It didn't echo."

Draco didn't apologize but he did lean down a bit more to whisper, "Potter, why in Merlin's name are you sitting in an alley in muggle London, in the dark?"

Potter frowned. "I don't think it's any of your business what I do in my free time, Draco. Besides, I'm not sitting of my own accord. I can't move my legs right now." Muttering, Draco looked down at Potter's legs. For the cold weather, Potter sure did have strange taste in clothing. He was wearing what had once been trousers, torn just above the knees. His legs were….

"Potter," Draco started warily, "why the bloody hell are you covered in these bruises? What happened?" He looked up to see Potter shrugging nonchalantly, as if sitting in a cold alley at this time of night was absolutely normal.

"It seems that even some muggles don't like me all that much. Fancy that," he trailed off, smiling quirkily. Draco frowned again—the expression was easily produced.

"Hey, are you alright?" Potter asked curiously, leaning up slightly to get a better look at Draco's unhappy expression. His eyes were squinted behind his frames. "If you're upset about the plant, I'll tell Neville it was my fault and I'll pay for the new plants. Don't be sad."

"I'm not bloody sad, Potter," Draco hissed angrily. "I'm wondering what the hell you're doing out here, looking as if you've been beaten to a bloody pulp!"

"Oh," Potter responded stupidly.

"Yes, Potter, _oh_. And why haven't you healed yourself?"

"I can't heal myself. I don't have my wand."

"And _where is it_?" Draco seethed. Potter shrugged, looking only slightly guilty.

"I left it at home. Didn't think I'd need it."

"Of all the stupid…"

While angry on the outside, internally Draco still angry but overwhelming that was his astonishment that Potter had even left his home. After the war, the Prophet had first glorified Potter and his feat of slaying the Dark Lord. Soon afterwards, however, they had begun to grow bored of the splendor and had started displaying Potter as paranoid and a young Mad-Eye, unable to conform to become normal, something the press had never before allowed Potter to be. Vile rumors were spread, saying that Potter wasn't even capable of leaving his own home without hexing a "suspicious" bystander. While Draco didn't really believe the extent of this so-called paranoia, he didn't believe Potter was daft enough to leave his home without protection. That in itself was pure idiocy.

"It's getting a bit too early, Draco. You may want to head home and get your little Shadow out of here. He will be a bit more willing to help if you brew him a Depression Draught. Neville always leaves the roots on them. Just chill some of the draught and let his roots soak it in. They love that."

Draco glared, "How did you know that I was getting my plant from Longbottom? What do you know about simulacrum bractea?"

Annoyingly, Potter shrugged again. "The plant looks nice; kind of creepy when it moves, though. I had one once; quite coincidentally, actually. Unfortunately, she died. Hermione didn't know what kind it was because of the rarity of it. Opened the window," he tut-ed, shaking his head. "Poor thing didn't have a chance. Tanned her leaves from a pale mint to an evergreen; she was absolutely distraught and committed suicide." Potter had surreptitiously slunk over Draco's initial question but he didn't bother to call him on it.

"How long have you been out here, Potter?" Draco questioned, bending down to inspect Potter's legs. Potter's skin was surprisingly pale, unlike the way it had been back in school. He looked like he'd been bleached from a healthy golden tone to a pasty white. It didn't look healthy. Then again, nothing did in this dark alley. The man in question just shrugged again. Draco sighed.

"Come on, Potter. We've got to get you out of here." Draco leaned down and placed his arms underneath Potter's, pulling him up evenly. Potter cooperated as best he could it seemed, but he truly didn't seem to have much strength in his legs. It surprised him.

"Sorry," Potter apologized sheepishly. "They really did a number on me this time. Didn't think it was that bad."

_This time?_ Draco thought worriedly before pushing away any pity for Potter. The moron was the one who had left home without a wand. He was just lucky that Draco was being substantially kind-hearted tonight. He had yet to curse at Potter, thump him over the head or call him something particularly rude. Draco wouldn't admit that the fires of rebellion may have been tamed years ago.

"You don't have to strain yourself," Potter said as he was dragged along. He hadn't been lying; he really couldn't seem move his legs. "I'm a bit heavy. Besides, I'll be fine. An hour or two will give me a chance to wake up my legs a bit."

Draco shook his head. "No way am I leaving you out here in the cold, Potter. It's freezing. I will not be the last witness that sees you alive before some muggle finds you dead and frozen on the street. The Ministry will have a field day trying to frame me for your unfortunate death." Draco grinned sardonically.

"I didn't mean to cause you any trouble, Draco."

"Just forget it, Potter." Draco huffed as he dragged Potter along before just giving up and lifting him in his arms, his arms wrapped underneath his load. Potter was a lot lighter than Draco thought he would be.

Potter didn't fight back nor did he comment on being lifted. Instead, he bided for resting his head so it lolled off the side of Draco's arms. He looked and felt unconscious but his hands rested on his abdomen, fingers tapping to an unknown beat.

"I don't know any healing charms, unfortunately, and even if I did, I can't risk the life of the simulacrum bractea."

"You shouldn't call him that," Potter interrupted. "They don't like that; it makes them feel even more like an outsider than usual. How would you like to be called by your species all the time? It's like you calling me Potter. Just because it's what I am doesn't mean it's who I am. You should call me Harry."

"Well you shouldn't just assume you can call me by the name Draco," he bit back. "Maybe I'd prefer to be called by what I am rather than who I am. Maybe what I am _is_ who I am. Assumption is the flaw of muggles, Potter. Don't fall to their level."

"You're so dark," Potter murmured to the night air, his head swaying from side to side. "Have you forgotten what the light looks like?"

"Don't be stupid, Potter. Anyone would think that you'd been hit with a Stunner."

"I wouldn't think so. I've always been a bit insane. Fortunately, people have always been too busy looking at my forehead to notice with their own eyes."

"Delirium doesn't suit you."

"It suits everyone. You just have to look at it the right way." He lifted his head and squinted his eyes. The street was much too dark for Draco to see much but the light of the stars above the desolate street glinted against the round metal frames on Potter's eyes.

"Whatever you say, Potter. Now, please tell me that I haven't been walking in the wrong direction to your house. I'd hate to have to walk back."

"Oh…I _think_ we're heading the right way. That's the misshapen street post that Mr. Jenks hit with his car last week…fellow needed stitches across his forehead. Horrible shape he was in. Anyway, if that's there, then the broken lamp post is next to it…yes, I think we're on the right path. You should see a house up ahead. Hopefully it hasn't moved itself again. Normally it's not hard to find but sometimes, it can get tricky."

"You mean to say that you don't even know where your own home is?" Draco questioned, astonished and—if he wasn't lying—a bit annoyed.

Potter chuckled, his head falling back again. "I never said I didn't know where it was. I just said it moved a lot; it likes doing that."

"Potter, what the fuck is _wrong _with you? Have you no sense? How ever are we going to find the house?" Infuriatingly, Potter shrugged awkwardly in Draco's grip.

"I don't know. Maybe it'll find us." Just as Draco was about to drop Potter so he could throttle him, a house appeared in his peripheral vision.

It was a small building of white stone that looked as it had been softened by sea water, the edges rounded and smooth. Even with the minimal light, it looked bright, as if it was a dim beacon in the darkness. Draco was tempted to cover his coat pocket even further but Potter stopped him.

"It's not real light," he murmured. "Only you and I see it; the house likes to hide but it knows when I need to see it. Shadow won't notice it too badly."

It took a few moments for his eyes to capture everything but when Draco did, he was astounded by the simplicity and beauty of the home. No fence, an open yard and trimmed hedges surrounded Potter's home; there were owls roosting in a large oak, hooting softly.

"Do you have any wards?" Draco asked as they approached the property. Potter shook his head.

"There's no need. No one takes anything or bothers me." Sighing despondently, Draco walked up to the house. When he reached the front door, he carefully placed Potter back on his own feet, preventing him from swaying. Potter opened the door.

Draco thought he'd gone blind.

It was so bright, like staring into the sun. At first, it had looked as if maybe Potter had cast _Lumos maximum_ in the room before he'd left and Draco quickly released Potter to shield his pocket.

"Come in," Potter ordered politely, clinging to the doorway as he pushed himself forward. It seemed to take him a moment but he staggered along until he reached a plush-looking brown sofa. He plopped himself down, hardly missing a beat when he threw himself along the length of the seat, sighing contently when his head hit the cushion.

"It's so warm," he murmured, rubbing his cheek against the upholstery. He seemed content to just lie there, Draco thought curiously before remembering that there was still an expiring plant in his pocket and little time to brew the depression draught that would give his emotional plant a longer life.

"Potter, I need—"

"You need a lot of things, Draco. You need more vision, for starters."

Draco scoffed, riled. "Please, with the lighting in this house, I doubt I couldn't see a speck of dirt upon your nose."

"You've been looking at my nose? Do you find it cute?" Potter asked, a grin in his voice. Draco sputtered for a moment.

"I—absolutely not, Potter! Stop spouting nonsense!" Potter just grinned, his cheek hindered by the cushion.

"Sorry, Draco; I was just a bit flattered, is all." Then Potter had the audacity to blush, and only then did Draco see the full extent of the colors on his face.

"Merlin, Potter, how the hell can you even open your eyes?!"

Draco had first been inclined to believe that the darkness of the night outside the home had been the cause of the shadows across Potter's face. His cheekbones had looked so defined and sharp that it looked like the bad lighting had caused it. Looking now, however, gave Draco a whole new perspective.

Potter's pale face was maimed by bruises and cuts, the skin beneath his eyes purple and blue. It the muggles who had attacked him didn't cover his face with marks, surely lack of sleep did it. Potter's eyes were bloodshot.

Not bothering to shield his plant any longer—he had long since given up hope that it would make it home before ending its own life—he stumbled toward Potter and kneeled before him. His hand shook as he slowly contemplated touching the marks. He damned his own wariness and pushed his gloved, unsteady hand to Potter's cheek. Even through the glove, he felt the chill emitted from Potter's colorful skin. It frightened him to death.

"You're hand is so warm," Potter murmured, his eyes closing as he nuzzled his cheek further into Draco's hand. With less hesitation, Draco lifted his other hand and put it to Potter's other cheek.

"What's happened to you?" Draco murmured in shock, his eyes unable to blink closed as he took in the sight of what appeared to be a sleeping hero, bruised and beaten from a battle he hadn't fought.

"Nothing…and everything," Potter murmured in response. His eyes fluttered open and Draco was compelled to remove the wiry framed that held the glaring glass that covered the viridian irises. "It doesn't hurt anymore, Draco."

Draco gazed on in disbelief and a strange mix of horror and sadness. Potter's response hadn't sounded like a simple assertion. No, it resembled a confession.

How could Draco respond to what the Boy-Who-Lived had said when he didn't even know what it meant? What were confessions, after all, if not declarations of guilt? What could the bespectacled boy possibly feel guilty for?

"I want to sleep, Draco," the boy—Draco could no longer see a man; he saw shadows—said decidedly. Draco nodded and tried to move his hand, but Potter laid his cheek down on it, effectively halting any movement from Draco.

"You're so warm," Potter repeated. "Don't leave yet." He yawned, nuzzling Draco's gloved palm once more before falling into what seemed to be an unbroken slumber.

By all means, Draco should have been angered but before he had even made up his own mind, his wand had mysteriously appeared in his hand and he was transfiguring a comfortable chaise longue beneath him and a warm blanket, his hand unmoved from Potter's cheek.

"Don't leave, Draco," Potter murmured. The bright lighting seemed to lower itself to a dull glow of yellow, a heatless firelight glow, dark enough to sleep beneath.

"Of course not, Potter," Draco sighed, laying his cheek against the cushion of his settee. "Of course not."

"Not Potter; Harry," Potter sighed and didn't speak once more.

_Of course, Harry. Of course._

--

Draco was eased into awareness from what appeared to be an unusual dream. He surely hadn't felt someone caressing his pocket…or reaching inside and accidentally touching him just a bit. He hadn't had a dream like that in…oh, who was he joshing? He'd had one just last week. Honestly, though, his body should have known that it was strange for someone to reach into his pocket in his sleep. Merlin, what was he going on about? It was merely a dream, after all.

Despite having just woken from that strange dream, it was still just as shocking when a cold hand reached out and touched his face, caressing his jaw. Fearfully, he clenched his eyes shut tightly. He wasn't exactly sure that he wanted to know what was going on in the real world. His dream obviously hadn't frightened him enough so now his mind was showing him that molestation was something to be feared. Celibacy had obviously been a very bad idea.

He didn't hear anything except for the quiet pattering of feet against the floor, the thuds fading away before suddenly growing louder and quickening in pace. Draco didn't have a chance to see what the cause was until his eyes shot open as something fairly heavy landed by his feet. The seat he was in raised before falling back down with a thud.

Harry Potter didn't wear glasses in the morning, apparently. Oh, and he also enjoyed hopping from the floor onto his guests' transfigured beds in order to wake them.

"Hey, Draco," Harry chirped, his eyes wide. It took Draco a moment to get over the fact that Potter wasn't wearing the glasses. His eyes looked too small and too bright, but as he bounced on the balls of his feet, his hair fell into his face, just barely shadowing his eyes. Yes, that was better.

The blonde raised an eyebrow, grazing his gaze over the bouncing form of the boy in front of him. How old was he now, twenty? He looked like a child.

"Potter, was that really necessary?"

"Harry," Potter corrected.

"Fine. _Harry_, was that really necessary?" The boy in question nodded and Draco sighed, leaning back onto his seat. Potter had other plans, it seemed. Without warning, Draco's lungs were crushed by Potter's surprisingly strong arms as he was squeezed around the middle. Potter's face was buried in his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured, turning his wide eyes to look directly into Draco's surprised ones. He hadn't expected to see such thick, long lashes. The circles were lighter this morning, allowing the darkness to contrast more against lavender skin.

Draco didn't get a chance to ask what he was thankful for before Potter stood, pulling the blonde with him.

"I made breakfast; hurry, before it gets warm!" Frowning at the strangeness of that sentence, he allowed himself to be pulled along.

When Draco reached the maple table, he knew that the raven-haired boy was absolutely mental. He wondered briefly if he would be able to stun him and check him over for dark curses or other possibly harmful incantations that could cause the insanity.

"Potter…this is dessert."

"No, it's breakfast. Come on, sit down." Draco was plopped into a seat before he had a chance to protest. Before him on clear glass platters were various delicacies, many of which Draco had no names for. Nowhere were there any familiar desserts from the tables of Hogwarts, nor were there many that Draco was sure he would be fond of. Cakes were small but numerous; ice cream dishes that looked strange as they were in strange colors; there was a strangely molded, milky-colored, gelatin-like dessert that Draco had no name for but Potter was cutting into it, squaring off a section onto his plate.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like—come to think of it, I didn't know what I'd want either—so I made _loads_. I think this one is from Arabia…I don't remember. It's supposed to be delicious—"

"Potter," Draco interrupted sternly. The boy looked up, his eyes wide and his spoon in his mouth. He seemed to have taken too large of a bite.

"'Arry," Potter corrected through his mouthful before swallowing loudly, panting slightly after the feat.

"Harry," Draco amended, "what are you doing?"

"Eating," Potter said, smiling at Draco as if he had just asked a silly question. "You should be, too. Most of these desserts need to be chilled. I was up since before dawn preparing them. Don't you like them?"

Draco frowned. "That's not what I meant, Harry. I want to know what you're playing at. There's obviously something very wrong with you; you're not right. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, Draco," Harry said, sounding confused.

"Oh, really? Then explain what you were doing out late last night?"

"I went to go visit Mrs. Figg."

"Who in Merlin's name is Mrs. Figg?" Harry sighed, pushing his molded gelatin around his place, leaving a milky trail along the edges of his plate.

"She was my neighbor from Little Whinging." Harry smiled, raising his eyes to look up at Draco. The green melded with silver. "When she didn't have to watch over me so much, she had more time for her cats. She got married."

Draco looked scandalized. "She married a cat? Is that even legal?" Harry quirked an eyebrow, looking annoyed for the first time since Draco had seen him.

"No, of course not. Her cat attacked a man, he threatened to sue her and she threw the cat at him. He liked her spunk and decided that Mr. Tibbles wasn't so bad so he married her."

"That…is absolutely mental." Harry laughed, his eyes squinted in mirth. Draco rather liked the look on his face.

"Yes, well, love can be a bit mental."

"But wait; Little Whinging is nowhere near here."

"I know. Mrs. Figg moved a couple streets from here. The muggles in Little Whinging are a bit too…stuffy for her. Her husband wanted a bit more of an atypical atmosphere to surround him. Lucky him; he married to someone who knows about magic and is friends with a wizard." Harry laughed again. Draco was entranced by the sound. He shook his head to clear it and coughed to unblock his throat.

"Then how did you end up in the alley? You said there were muggles…"

Harry nodded, sighing as he took another bite of his dess—breakfast.

"On my way back from Mrs. Figg's, some of the locals spotted me and decided to have a go," Harry smiled at his plate. "They were violent. Abnormally so, actually, now that I think about it. They normally don't go below the waist. It's usually the face or the gut but they were angry—bladdered, most likely." Harry turned away, his spoon clattering out of his grasp.

"One of them tore my pants…" The connotations hit Draco more quickly than the Killing Curse. He knocked over his chair as he stood abruptly and ran to Harry, turning his face towards him. Potter's eyes were wide again and the green was dark and shadowed. His pupils were large and all-encompassing.

"Harry," Draco called, trying to capture the boy's attention. He felt desperate and unsure. There had never been an instance in his life where something like this had happened. The Wizarding world wasn't like the Muggle world. Violence was another spectrum of wizardry that wasn't similar to muggle violence. Wizards dueled and tricked one another with spells that, while sometimes invasive and physically riddling, weren't done by the hands of the one who dealt the incantation. Muggle violence such as this, the heinous crime of rape and violation, were someone's hands touching, groping, _taking_. Draco felt bile rise in his throat.

"Harry, you must tell me who did it. We can—"

"Shadow made it through the night." The comment startled Draco.

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Shadow leaf, he survived. Come look." Harry hopped out of his chair and hopped away. Or so it seemed; the hopping that Draco had once believed to be the result of barminess now took on a different form. Harry was limping.

"You shouldn't be walking around," Draco reasoned, catching up with Harry quickly. "I'm sure he's fine. We can look at him later."

"Nonsense," Harry argued lightly. He entered a hall, candle lights igniting the corridor in little yellow flames. This was the darkest Draco had seen the house (even darker than the sitting room had been the previous night). He squinted.

The glowing walls seemed like parts of a completely different home. There had been no obvious transition of the home as it transformed from a lively, bright home to a dark dungeon, moist walls making the hair on Draco's neck fall limply against his neck, thick with moisture.

A large, steel door was at the end of the hall, the glare that was emitted looking loose and misshapen, as if the door too had been slick with water. Harry touched the handle and it glowed a brilliantly horrifying shade of vibrant green. It opened slowly, Harry guiding Draco in only by waving his hand at him. Draco, warily, walked forward and through the door, wincing as a drop of cold water dripped through his wool jacket. Harry stepped to the side to allow Draco more space to enter. Looking down, Draco noticed he had stepped into a puddle. Groaning, he looked up—he had a bone to pick with Merlin—but before he could curse, he saw what Harry must have brought him to see.

Draco's once-little—possibly dying—simulacrum bractea was now large, possibly as tall as himself. What he had just thought to be a lost cause was now a beautiful plant with large, rare black blooms donned upon the stems that had red and pale green spores of pollen. Ragged little points of black had managed to sprout from the leaves, like little lowlights.

"How…how did this happen?" Draco gasped, astounded, as the plant extended a stem towards him. It brushed his neat hair, only pushed back because of him impeccable senses that always managed to remind him to push it back into its immaculate place, so it covered one of his eyes.

"He's wonderfully depressed now," Harry murmured. "The Draught of Eternal Damnation was what he needed—he was already so depressed; pushing him any further with the other potion would have made him kill himself. Also, the aura around us last night kept him alive long enough that he was ready to blossom. He's so tragically beautiful, isn't he?" Draco could only nod his agreement.

"He likes being read poems from written by a muggle poet. He was so dark, Edgar Allen Poe. I'd never really read his work before, but it works. I had it on the bookshelf but I had never gotten around to reading it."

Draco slowly turned to Harry, his eyes large and open.

"You…you read to him?" Harry nodded, smiling at the plant.

"Muggles say that if you read or talk to your plants, they live to be stronger and they flourish. Shadow just needed a bit more attention. Neville always talks to his plants but he's so distracted by the multitude of them that he doesn't designate enough time for plants like Shadow. Neville doesn't know depression that well, despite everything he's gone through. He forgets the past…"

"Harry…" Draco murmured, "please, tell me what's going on. I don't….I don't know how to take this. You're confusing me."

"You've changed since the war, Draco," Harry said quietly, his voice a whisper as he walked toward the blossoming plant, caressing a shuddering leaf. "For the better, I assure you. When I look at you, all the light…it seems real."

Draco was confused. How could Harry not see…did he mean metaphorically?

"Don't you wonder why my home is so bright, Draco?" Harry asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "Of course you did. It was clear on your face. It must have burned your eyes, to see such bright lights. It doesn't burn mine, though."

"Is it because you are the Light, Harry?" Draco spat morosely, angry with himself. Such a stupid child he had been, thinking that he could be important and _special_, just as the Boy-Who-Lived was. He'd tried to be the Prince of the Darkness, the heir to what the Dark Lord had thrust upon the Purebloods. It had been a foolish dream, a fluke that he had so eagerly fallen for.

"No," Harry murmured. He picked up a bucket from the floor and tipped it towards the base of Draco's simulacrum, dripping an iridescent purple potion into the soil in which it was planted. "It's because _you _are the light."

Draco didn't understand. "What?"

"Look at yourself, Draco. Look at what you've become! You've grown so much; so far you've come from what you once were. You're the man your father could have never become."

"That makes no sense, Potter," Draco argued. "Who are you, The Boy Who Lived, to say that I, Draco Malfoy, am one of the light? Am one of the good?"

"How do you see me, Draco?" Befuddled, Draco didn't answer.

"You see me as someone naïve, someone so confused or lost or hurt or broken—hell, all of the above—and yet you can't see what I am. A _monster_."

The leaves of the plant shuddered and grew, bulbously growing and thinning at the same time until the leaves were like daggers, the ragged marks that had been donned now tiny little thorns. They stabbed Harry's pale hand, drops of blood pouring languidly from the wounds. Draco moved to stop him, to pull his hands away from the imminent danger, but Harry held his hand out to stop him.

"Shadow needed someone to understand him, someone who would know what he is and what he was to become. He never would have survived for long when he was with you. His death was irrevocably coming for him from the moment you picked him from Neville's hand. Friendship would have killed him; _jealousy_ would have killed him. Draco, you have come to have a comradeship with Neville, something Shadow would envy whether it was possible for him to have or not."

He nearly fell over. Draco was unused to being so frazzled by talk such as this but there was something odd in the way Potter was talking—in the way _Harry_ was talking.

"The people of the light…they can't see the darkness. Have you not noticed? My home, it is too bright for you to see properly, correct?" Draco, unsure of what to do, nodded.

Harry sighed, kneeling before the plant and petting it's long stalk.

"I can't see anything but the dark, Draco. My home…it's full of darkness because that is what is brighter to _me_. It's the only semblance of light that I have. You see the light that you wish to see…such a wonderful gift, the imagination. I'm afraid I no longer have one."

"What about vision? If I don't have it, surely you do," Draco assured hurriedly. "You are absolutely mad if you believe any of what you are saying."

Harry stood, his bloody fingertips running against the scaly stalk. His blood was immediately absorbed and the scaled turned red and brown.

"Vision has nothing to do with imagination, Draco. Vision is to see what is real and what can be, not to imagine it. It is foresight; you have none. I have too much….and…I just want it to _stop_!"

Harry had turned himself away from Draco but he didn't pull away when long, warm arms were wrapped around him. Instead, he turned into them, sobbing into the strong shoulders that encircled his small body, burying himself deep into Draco. This was the Harry Draco remembered from the night before, the Harry that was innocent, lost, naïve even.

"I don't even know when it happened," Harry murmured brokenly. "One day, the light was just too dark…I looked at it and it was like being in an unfamiliar room with the lights off….and I couldn't _turn them on_! I kept on stepping on things, falling over and I couldn't stop moving to get a feel of my surroundings. There were no other options other than to keep on walking and falling. How could I have stopped when everything was spinning so quickly? How could I have?"

Draco shushed him, drawing him in closer to his chest. The smaller body was trembling and freezing, chilling his exposed hands to the point where it felt as if he was holding ice.

"What of your friends, Harry? Where were they? They wouldn't think of leaving you to find your way alone; I know that much."

"They don't know," Harry sniffled. "They're too light for me. When they see me, they think it is nightmares, that maybe I just can't sleep or eat right. I can't tell them that they are making me sick. Their light…it makes me ill."

"And what about me?" Draco asked in a murmur. "If you can't stand your own friends, you most certainly can't stand me as well."

"When I look at you, when I hold you, I'm not cold anymore," Harry said urgently. "Please don't take it away. I see the light now, _real _light…and it's so beautiful. I feel like I'm staring into the sun but it doesn't burn. It feels like I'm burning in it, but burning so pleasantly. I can't help but feel that if I lose it, I will die. Please don't kill me." He was begging, grasping Draco's shoulders so tightly that it was painful. Draco shushed him again.

"I'm not leaving, Harry."

"Thank you, Draco. Thank you," Harry cried softly, sobbing through his words.

Draco knew that somehow, through the night and morning, that his life had changed. Harry had changed since the war and so had Draco. It was a strange change, one he never would have anticipated. He was different in the most splendid of ways. Holding the man in his arms, he felt as if something pull him closer, a sun pulling his core closer to Harry.

"When I was in the alley," Harry murmured, "the men were slow, drunk. They couldn't even walk properly and I didn't want to run from them. I could have run. But they were dark…so, so dark. When they hurt me, when they touched me, I was feeling things. I hurt, but it was dark and I could see it and feel it on me. I could have fought them off; I could have saved myself. But I didn't. I wanted to feel everything. It was better than anything. Then, afterwards, I felt nothing." Draco shushed him, pulling his head to his shoulder and resting his chin atop it.

In the cold alley in which he had found Harry, he would never return. Looking at it now would be like an insult, like turning back time and saying he'd want to do it over. The alley was the place where he'd picked Harry up and now, he couldn't even comprehend putting him back.

**A/N: **Initially, this story was going to be rather cliché, falling under the romance/drama genres. It still is romance and drama, but I believe that somewhere along the way, the story shifted to behold a largely deeper meaning.

At the beginning of this story, Draco has a very pessimistic view of his life and of things in general. When he meets Harry, he sees an innocent, strangely naïve sounding boy/man, one who he only slightly recognizes as Potter. However, hidden deeply are subtle hints of Draco's light and Harry's dark. Harry's overall behavior is strange and unrealistic, especially for someone who has just gone through the traumatic experience of being violently violated. Draco is the only one who is worrying. Harry doesn't seem to be bothered.

The simulacrum bractea (translated in Latin to 'shadow leaf') is also another bit of symbolism. Harry stated it himself: Draco would never be able to care for the plant as he was then. Harry could, obviously. The dessert for breakfast was the last remnant of Harry's light, or childishness if you prefer. He was trying to sense the childishness of himself that he left behind some time ago. A sweet memory. Pardon the pun.

The basis of the story shows light is not easily mistaken for dark but dark is easily mistaken for light and that people of the Light are quick to view Dark as Light. It is rather confusing.

I do hope that this has been somewhat helpful for you all. Though, my explanation does seem rather long winded. Any other questions can be expressed in a review or a personal message.


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